


A Night on the Town

by ikeracity, Pangea



Series: The Associates [8]
Category: X-Men (Alternate Timeline Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Mob, Blindfolds, Costume Parties & Masquerades, Erik Being Cocky, Established Relationship, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-25
Updated: 2016-10-10
Packaged: 2018-08-17 07:26:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 17,549
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8135411
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ikeracity/pseuds/ikeracity, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pangea/pseuds/Pangea
Summary: A masquerade party. A business deal. An assassin. A blindfold. 
Charles and Erik have a great night.





	1. The Setup

When Charles wakes up on Saturday morning, the other half of the bed is empty. There’s no seventy-pound dog lying across his lower body and cutting off the circulation in his legs either, so he assumes Erik and Rosie are out on their morning run. Yawning, he rubs at his eyes and slowly rolls out of bed.

His stomach grumbles loudly as he heads to the bathroom to relieve himself. He and Erik had had an early dinner last night, curled up for a movie, traded sleepy blowjobs, and then promptly fallen asleep at eleven p.m. They’re getting old, Charles thinks ruefully. Not so long ago, Friday nights had been characterized by sex marathons, copious amounts of alcohol, and very little sleep. Maybe this is what people mean when they say things slow down after marriage.

Spinning the ring on his finger idly, he pads out of the bedroom, down the hall, and pauses in surprise when he finds Erik sitting at the kitchen bar top with a bowl of cereal, poking at his tablet. Rosie is lying at his feet on her back, contorted strangely.

“Hey,” he says, coming over to give Erik a quick kiss. “I thought you were on a run.”

“We were,” Erik replies, leaning up for the kiss. “We came back early when it started to rain.”

Charles peers out the window at the sky, which is gray, cloudy, and foreboding. There’s no rain at the moment though, only ominous darkness. “Was there a storm? I guess I slept through it.”

“Only a short one. And you’d sleep through anything.”

“Not true.”

“I tried to wake you up with a blowjob once and you slept through your orgasm,” Erik points out dryly.

“I was tired!” Charles exclaims. “It was finals week and I hadn’t slept in three days! You can’t hold that against me.”

“I can, and I will,” Erik says smugly.

Huffing, Charles crosses over to the cabinets to fetch a bowl and a spoon and digs the milk out of the fridge. As he pours himself a good heaping pile of Cocoa Puffs, he glances down at Rosie, who’s still on her back, twisted up, and frowns. “What’s she doing?”

“Playing dead,” Erik answers without looking up from his tablet.

“Did you teach her how to do that?”

“No, Azazel and Angel did.”

Charles sighs. “Of course they did. Rosie! Come here, girl.”

Instantly, Rosie leaps up onto her feet and comes rushing over to greet Charles by pushing her whole body between his legs and trying to lick at his hands. Laughing, he untangles her from his legs and strokes her roughly. “Good morning, darling. How are you?”

“Not tired at all,” Erik says. “We only went a couple of miles before we had to turn back. She’ll need another walk later if the skies clear up.”

“We’ll go on a long walk, won’t we?” Charles croons, stroking her long ears. At the word _walk,_ Rosie wags her whole body madly, slamming Charles up against the counter with enough force to bruise. “Ow, ow,” he laughs, pushing her away gently. “You’re going to break my legs.”

“That’s my girl,” Erik says fondly. “Every inch of her is a weapon.”

At his voice, Rosie rounds the counter to go say hello to him again. Rolling his eyes, Charles pours milk into his bowl and stirs. “So what are your plans for the day? You aren’t going into the office, right?”

“No, I’m not, but I’m still going to look at a few things.” Erik gestures at the tablet. “Alex sent some intel over that I need to review, but after I’m done, we can get lunch.”

“Intel?” Charles sidles over to his side of the bar top with his bowl of cereal and slides up onto the stool next to Erik’s. “Anything I can help with?”

“Probably not. Just business deals.” Erik’s looking through a PDF on his tablet. As Charles watches, he thumbs through a couple of pages filled with dense blocks of text. When he notices Charles reading over his shoulder, he glances over and says, “Go watch TV or something. You don’t have to bore yourself with this.”

“Are you saying that because you actually don’t want me to be bored or because you don’t want me reading sensitive information?”

“A little bit of both,” Erik admits. “The less you know…”

“The better,” Charles sighs. “I know.”

Most of the time, he appreciates it when Erik keeps him away from most of his mob business to protect him, but lately he’s noticed Erik making significant efforts to keep him away from _all_ of Erik’s mob business. It’s been a while since Charles has helped out on anything, whether it’s meeting with rivals, feeling out informants, or just hanging around the office to see if he can lend an extra hand. It’s been since Erik went to prison, in fact.

It has something to do with their getting married, Charles just knows it. The rings and the marriage certificate haven’t changed much for Charles—no one even _knows_ about the marriage, not really—but clearly it’s made a difference to Erik. Charles is still deciding if he’s annoyed by the fact or just a little bit touched by it.

He gathers up his bowl of cereal and slides off the bar stool. “It won’t bother you if I watch something?”

“No, go ahead.”

“Not even if I watch _Mob Bosses of Atlanta?”_ Charles teases.

Erik grits his teeth. “The _inaccuracies_ in that show are insulting to anyone with even a _shred_ of common sense—”

“I know, I know,” Charles laughs. “I’ll put on something else.”

He leans over for a kiss just as Erik swipes to pull up the next page in his PDF. Pausing, Charles cocks his head and says, “Hang on, I know him.”

Erik frowns down at the picture on his tablet. “Him?”

“Yeah.” Charles tilts the tablet so he can see better. “Mr. Kuo.”

He’s a little more aged in the picture than the Mr. Kuo in Charles’s memory, his jet black hair streaked with gray at his temples and ears, his face creased with laugh lines. But there’s no mistaking him—Charles very clearly remembers how much his mother had fawned over Mr. Kuo and his wife at the annual Christmas parties at the mansion, eager to get into his good graces.

“You know him?”

“Yeah. He gave me a robot for Christmas once.” When Erik shoots him a quizzical look, Charles clarifies, “A robotic dog. Mother never let me have real pets, so I guess Mr. Kuo thought a mechanical puppy would be the perfect gift for a thirteen-year-old. I did love that puppy. I named him Stanley.”

Erik snorts and looks back down at Kuo’s picture. “So he’s an old family friend.”

“Something like that. Why are you looking into him?”

“Business.” Erik scrolls away from Kuo’s picture and nods at the TV behind them. “Weren’t you going to watch something?”

Charles gives him a flat look. “Come on, Erik. Mr. Kuo was one of my father’s closest friends. I saw him every year for Christmas since I was eleven until I left for Oxford. If you need something from him, I can help.”

Erik hesitates. Charles watches as his mind whirrs, considering pros and cons, weighing the benefits and the risks. It’s obvious he doesn’t want to get Charles directly involved in mob business now that they’re married (and they’re going to have to talk about that later, Charles makes a note of it), but at the same time, the current business at hand is almost completely aboveboard. And Erik _could_ use some help.

“Kuo’s selling some land up north by Lake Placid,” Erik explains. “I’m interested in acquiring it, but he’s got several bidders. I’ve been trying to get a face-to-face meeting with him, but his schedule is completely booked for the next month or so, according to his secretary. I could send Azazel but…”

“But you just got out of prison and you need to lay low,” Charles says sternly. If Erik gets himself booted back to prison barely two months after getting out, Charles is going to get a bloody divorce and move to Australia, where the weather is nice and he doesn’t have to deal with stupid _mob bosses_ and their drama. “You should’ve told me earlier. I’m sure I still have his number somewhere.”

“Do you really think you can get a meeting with him?” Erik asks dubiously. “I’ve been trying for a couple of weeks now and nothing.”

Charles pats his shoulder fondly. “Erik, you’re lovely, but you aren’t an Xavier, and believe me, in Mr. Kuo’s world, that matters. Let me make a call, and I’ll let you know.”

“Okay,” Erik says, still frowning skeptically. “Let me know.”

 

*

 

The following Monday when Erik gets home from the office, he’s ambushed by Charles, who pounces on him in the front hallway, kisses him hello, and waves something papery in his face.

Erik tries not to get knocked off his feet by Rosie, who’s crowding around on his shoes and getting dog fur all over his slacks. “What is that?”

“This,” Charles says, grinning, “is an invitation.”

“To what?” Erik asks, shrugging off his coat. Once he’s hung up his coat and scarf, he tugs the envelope out of Charles’s hand. It’s printed on thick, creamy paper, sealed with actual wax. Good god. Thumbing it open, Erik reads over the gold lettering inside, eyebrows rising.

“A masquerade!” Charles bursts out. “Do you know I’ve always wanted to go to a masquerade party?”

“Kuo sent you this?”

“I called him up, told him I was interested in purchasing his land by Lake Placid, and he told me we could chat about it tomorrow night at his gala.” Charles’s grin widens. “His _masquerade_ gala.”

Erik turns the envelope over, frowning. “I can’t help but notice that there’s only one invitation.”

Charles’s excitement dims slightly. “Ah yes. About that.” Biting his lip, he smiles at Erik apologetically.

It takes Erik a moment to realize what he’s getting at, and when it clicks, he stares at Charles in disbelief. “Wait, you secured a meeting with Kuo...without me?”

“It’s a charity gala with limited seating,” Charles explains quickly. “He only had one seat left and...well, I figured one of us meeting with him would be better than neither of us.”

“Then I’ll go.”

Charles grins ruefully. “He said he was looking forward to seeing me, so I don’t think he’d appreciate it if I sent a stranger in my place.”

“But _I’m_ the one who wants to buy his land,” Erik says, exasperated. “I’m the one who has to work out the deal. You aren’t up to speed on any of the details. How are you supposed to negotiate with him?”

“Yes, I know,” Charles says patiently, “but I’ll mention to him that a friend of mine—you, of course—is interested in his land, I’ll warm him up to the idea of sitting down with you, and I’ll hopefully get you a meeting with him in the near future. A _real_ meeting, not a party.”

It’s not a terrible plan, Erik admits reluctantly, and he really doesn’t have any other avenues to approach Kuo right now, so...it seems like this masquerade party is the best option they have.

“I don’t like you going in alone,” Erik says, frowning.

Charles laughs. “Erik, this is a charity gala filled with real businessmen, not mob bosses pretending to be businessmen. I doubt any of your more...unsavory acquaintances will be there.”

“It really amazes me how convinced you are that ‘real businessmen’ aren’t just as much criminals as I am,” Erik says dryly. “And besides, I _am_ a real businessman. I just do most of my business where the police can’t see it.”

“Well, regardless,” Charles says, padding into the kitchen, “I’m pretty sure the worst thing that could happen to me at the gala is I could eat a terrible shrimp appetizer and end up with food poisoning. Not really anything you could protect me against, you understand.”

“Well, forgive me for being cautious,” Erik grumbles as he heads down the hall to their bedroom, stripping his tie off as he goes. _It’s kind of my job, you know._

 _I know,_ Charles answers. _But I’ll be fine, Erik. Trust me._

 _I do trust you,_ Erik says. _It’s everyone else I’m wary of._

He strips out of his suit and tie, changes into a pair of sweatpants and a blue Columbia t-shirt Charles had bought him last year for his birthday, and puts his wedding ring back on at last, since he dutifully _hasn’t_ been wearing it all day. He slinks back out to the kitchen, where Charles is making tea. Fetching two mugs out of the upper cabinets, Erik says, “You’ll wear a wire.”

“What?”

“A wire and a camera,” Erik says firmly. “Nonnegotiable.”

“Erik, I’m going to a _party_ as a _guest_. I’m not sneaking into enemy territory.”

“That we know of.”

Charles shoots him an exasperated look. “Don’t be ridiculous.”

Erik arches an eyebrow. “It’s ridiculous to worry about my husband?”

“ _Don’t_ call me that,” Charles says sternly, with a hint of impatience. “You’ll get used to saying it, and the next thing you know, you’ll be forgetting to take your ring off at the door, and then everyone and their mother will know we’re married.”

He’s reminded Erik of this countless times since Erik returned from prison. The problem is, Erik doesn’t keep calling him _husband_ because he forgets. He calls Charles _husband_ because he just really, really likes the sound of it. Not, Erik thinks with a pang of disappointment, that it seems to matter to Charles.

Charles’s expression softens. Setting aside the teapot, he comes around and wraps his arms around Erik, pressing his cheek to Erik’s. “I’m sorry. I know you’re excited about being married. I am, too.”

“You don’t have to pretend,” Erik says gruffly.

“I’m not pretending,” Charles insists. “Am I pleased about how we got married? No. But do I like being married to you? Thinking about you as my husband? Yes. Yes, I do.”

“Really?” Erik says skeptically. “Because you’ve mentioned divorce a lot for a man who likes being married.” Yesterday Charles had announced he wanted a divorce after they discovered they had no more clean towels left. He’s never serious, Erik knows, but there’s no denying he brings it up often.

“Only because you’re insufferable sometimes,” Charles huffs. Tilting his head so that his lips brush Erik’s ear, he whispers, “I do love being your husband, you know. And I love that you’re _mine_.”

Erik shivers, pleased. Sliding his hands down the strong line of Charles’s back to the swell of his ass, he growls back, “Good.”

Charles kisses him, slow and sweet, his tongue teasing along Erik’s bottom lip. Closing his eyes, Erik leans into the kiss and pushes his hands up the back of Charles’s shirt, trailing his fingers along the smooth skin of Charles’s back. He presses his thumb into one knob of Charles’s spine and grins when Charles arches against him in response, following the pressure.

“How about we call it an early night?” Erik says, opening his eyes again lazily.

“It’s not even seven yet,” Charles murmurs in reply. “We haven’t eaten dinner, and my tea’s going cold.”

Erik sneaks his hand under the waistband of Charles’s jeans and squeezes Charles’s ass through his boxers. That earns him a soft groan. “That’s really what you’re concerned about right now?”

“Mmm…” Charles pushes his ass back against Erik’s palm. “Promise me one thing?”

Pulling him close, Erik bends his head to mouth at Charles’s jaw. At the same time, he undoes the clasp and zipper of Charles’s jeans with a flick of his powers. “Anything.”

Charles sinks his fingers into Erik’s hair, tugging firmly. “No cameras. No wires.”

It’s such a non sequitur that Erik has no idea what he’s talking about for a moment. When his brain, which had already started the migration south to his cock, finally catches up, Erik stops kissing him and pulls back with a glare. “Has anyone ever told you you’re very good at killing the mood?”

“It’s a secondary mutation,” Charles says dryly. “So?”

Erik heaves a sigh. “Fine. No cameras.”

“ _And_ no wires.”

“You have to wear a wire. You’re not changing my mind on that.”

“Why? It’s not as if you’re going to be close enough to rush in the instant someone says something objectionable.”

Erik hums noncommittally and pays particular attention to the sensitive spot behind Charles’s ear in hopes of distracting him.

No dice—Charles pushes him back, eyes narrowed. “Erik, you _aren’t_ planning to stake out the gala. Tell me you aren’t.”

“I’m not,” Erik says dutifully. Never mind the fact that he’s already planning on sneaking in, his lack of an invitation be damned. But Charles doesn’t need to know that.

Charles raises both eyebrows at him, thoroughly unimpressed. “You _are_ aware that thinking _Charles doesn’t need to know that_ really loudly is rather counterproductive?”

Erik grins shamelessly. “What can I say? I’m never anything but completely honest with you.”

Charles barks a laugh. “Right. And I’m the king of England.”

“Mhhm,” Erik hums easily, pulling Charles close again. Turning his head, he presses his lips to Charles’s temple. “So, Your Majesty, care to come with me to bed?”

Rolling his eyes, Charles says, “My tea’s getting cold.”

“It’s already cold.”

“And whose fault is that?”

“Probably Rosie’s,” Erik says, and then mentally whispers a quick apology for always being so willing to throw his dog under the bus.

Charles’s mouth twitches, and he finally relaxes into Erik’s embrace with a sigh. Skimming his hands up Erik’s shirt, he says, “Fine. Bed. But this conversation is not over.”

“What conversation?” Erik asks innocently, and kisses Charles hard before he can say anything else.

 

*

 

The masquerade is on Friday evening at seven. Charles spends his office hours on Tuesday browsing through Amazon, looking for masks. Almost all the options are gorgeous, some of them gold, some silver, some delicate laser-cut metal, some even studded with real sapphires (he stares incredulously at the last one—he may be rich but he’s never been particularly extravagant, and _that_ is extravagant). He notes a few that he’s particularly fond of and sends the pictures to Erik for his opinion.

After stopping by Cafe East for lunch, he meets up with Hank to discuss the course of their latest research project.

“I know I promised I’d be in the lab this Friday,” Hank says hesitantly, pushing his glasses up his nose, “but...well, I was wondering if I could come in on Saturday instead?”

“I thought you were already going to come in Saturday,” Charles says.

“I was, yeah. I just meant, I was wondering if I could make up my Friday hours on Saturday?”

Charles shrugs. “Of course. As long as we make our deadlines, you’re free to put in the hours wherever you can.” He eyes Hank’s flush, the slight reddening of his ears. “What’s happening on Friday?”

The color in Hank’s cheeks deepens. “I’m, um...I have a date.”

“A date!” In all the time Hank’s been his research assistant, Charles doesn’t ever recall Hank showing an interest in anyone, of any gender. Grinning, Charles claps him on the back. “That’s great, Hank!”

“Thanks,” Hank says, ducking his head.

Charles starts to say more, but right that second, his phone begins to ring, vibrating in his pocket. “I’ll catch up to you later,” he says, waving Hank along. Digging his phone out of his pocket, he glances at the screen and hits answer. “Hey, did you get the pictures I sent you?”

“Yes.”

“So? What do you think?”

“You’re not really going to buy a mask, are you?”

Charles frowns, tucking his free hand into his pocket as he makes his way back to his office. “Why? Do you have a mask maker on retainer or something?”

“Yes,” Erik replies with a hint of exasperation. “ _Me_.”

“You?” Charles starts to laugh, then pauses to seriously consider that for a moment. Most of the masks he’d been eyeing _are_ made of metal, and Erik _could_ customize any mask to fit him perfectly. “Erik, do you even know how to make a mask?”

Erik scoffs. “How hard can it be? And you know any mask I make will be finer quality than any of the mass-produced shit on Amazon.”

Charles laughs. “Well, all right, if you feel that strongly about it...”

“I do.” There’s a bit of rustling on Erik’s side before Erik says, “What time are you getting home tonight? I can have Azazel bring some sample metal cuts over so you can choose colors. And we can discuss where you want the Swarovski crystals.”

“The _what?”_ Charles resists the urge to rub at his temples. “Nevermind, why am I surprised? We’ll talk about it when I get home. I have a meeting at four, but it won’t last too long. I should be home by five.”

“Good. I’ll bring dinner.”

Charles hangs up with a sigh. Why does he get the feeling that the mask Erik makes for him is going to be a complete monstrosity?

 

*

 

It is.

“What the hell is this?” Charles demands, staring at it with undisguised horror.

Erik grins up at him from behind the desk in his study, which has been transformed into his metal workshop over the last day or so. “I like the unique look, don’t you?”

Charles stares at the horns. The whole piece is unbelievably intricate, made up entirely of tiny twists and elegant curls of metal, but it’s huge and asymmetrical and kind of grotesque. “Erik, I told you to make me a mask, not a gargoyle.”

“It’s _one of a kind_.” Erik gets up and comes around to pick it up. “Here, put it on.”

Dubiously, Charles reaches out to take it from him and nearly drops it. “Erik,” he says incredulously, “this thing weighs a metric _ton_. Are you trying to snap my neck?”

“It’s not _that_ heavy,” Erik grumbles. Pulling it up, he slides it over Charles’s head, secures the straps, and frowns when Charles staggers under its weight. “All right, it might be a little heavy.”

“You think?” Charles says dryly, his voice muffled behind the web of metal that presses against his lips. He has both hands on the horns so the mask doesn’t topple him backwards.

Lifting it with his powers, Erik tugs his creation off again and sets it down on his desk. “I’ll work on it. Are you _sure_ I can’t put any crystals on it?”

“Do _not_ put any expensive gemstones on the masquerade mask I’m going to be wearing for _two hours_ ,” Charles says sternly.

“Killjoy,” Erik mutters.

“It’s my middle name,” Charles deadpans.

“Sure, Francis.”

“Okay, _Magnus_ ,” Charles says pointedly, but Erik merely shows his teeth in a grin. “It doesn’t have to be over-the-top extravagant. It just needs to cover a portion of my face, and I need to be able to speak through it while sipping champagne without making a mess of myself.”

“That’s the only good thing about this entire setup,” Erik says with feeling. “You’re going to come home loaded up on champagne.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Charles asks, eyes narrowed.

“We have the _best_ sex when you’re drunk on champagne,” Erik says reverently, a little starry-eyed and dreamy as he presumably imagines it.

Rolling his eyes, Charles scoffs. “Well you’re out of luck. I’m hardly going to get tipsy let alone drunk at one of Kuo’s parties, and especially not if I’m supposed to be talking business with him.”

“He’s a businessman,” Erik says confidently, “he’ll want to celebrate once you make a deal with him. He’ll get you smashed too.”

Charles means to argue further, but he’s distracted by the absent way Erik melts down the mask he’d made, all the intricate twists and curls blending together and smoothing out into a featureless sphere of metal. “You didn’t have to destroy that one. I liked the general look of it, aside from the weight and the horns.”

“I can redo them,” Erik says dismissively, “and besides, I didn’t like the look of this metal on you anyway. I’ll use a different kind next time.”

There’s no budging Erik when it comes to metal aesthetic, and Charles knows better than to even try. “Alright, I trust you. But if the next one doesn’t work out either, I’m going to rush order something off Amazon.”

“You won’t have to,” Erik says, eyes glinting in the dangerous sort of way that means he’s going to get it done or die trying, which Charles thinks is rather dramatic for what basically amounts to arts and crafts. “In the meantime, now that we have this scrap metal…”

Charles stares at him flatly as the sphere stretches out and reforms into a perfectly proportioned metal cock, with a fat uncircumcised head and even a vein running up the thick girth. “Oh, look at the time. The takeout is probably getting cold.”

“Takeout can be reheated,” Erik says, bobbing the metal dildo in the air invitingly. His thoughts are purposefully loud, blasting Charles with several different depictions of how exactly he can put it to use, ranging from Charles spread out across Erik’s desk or bent over the back of the couch.

“I want a divorce,” Charles says, wheeling around to head for the study’s door, and Erik huffs out a laugh as he follows, leaving the dildo behind on his desk.

“But I brought you Elena’s for dinner.”

“I love my husband,” Charles says immediately, and isn’t able to keep from smiling at the way Erik’s entire mind lights up at the words _my husband_ , even though Erik knew Charles wasn’t serious about a divorce in the first place.

They split the box of enchiladas and tacos and settle at the round kitchen table, Rosie at their feet. Petting her with one socked foot, Charles asks, “So what are your plans for Friday night?”

“I thought Alex and I might see a movie,” Erik says casually.

“Really,” Charles says flatly. “That’s really the best lie you could come up with?”

“Why bother asking when you know what I’m really going to do anyway?” Erik points out.

“Honestly,” Charles says, licking salsa off his finger, “what on earth do you think is going to happen at a gala? A completely legal, completely safe gala that has _nothing_ to do with the mob whatsoever?”

“In case you’ve forgotten,” Erik replies dryly, “you’re kind of married to the mob.”

Charles rolls his eyes. “How could I have forgotten? You won’t let me.” Reaching over, he steals some of Erik’s extra sour cream and liberally coats his taco with it. “I’m sure you have better things to do with your time than camp out for two hours in a van and listen to a bunch of rich people make small talk.”

“Haven’t you heard? Camping out in vans listening to a bunch of rich people make small talk is my new favorite hobby.”

Charles shoves him lightly with his foot, which only makes Erik laugh. “You’re so dumb,” Charles mutters, but he can’t help the warm affection that comes out in his voice, or the smile that tugs at his lips when Erik continues to flash him his trademark shit-eating grin. Charles loves that grin, as much as it exasperates him most of the time. Erik might be overbearing and overprotective and clueless about how normal relationships work sometimes, but he’s Charles’s. There’s no better truth than that.

Erik’s grin widens. “You just thought something nice and sappy about me.”

Charles sniffs. “I did not.”  

“Yes, you did. I can always feel it when you do.” Erik taps his head. “Up here.”

“Eat your taco,” Charles orders with a scoff, and Erik just laughs.

After dinner, Erik returns to the study to work while Charles sits in bed and reads. He’s in the middle of an excellent Stephen King novel, one he’s been trying to find the time to finish for nearly a month now. But even tonight, with no papers to grade, no emails to answer, and no lectures to plan, he can’t quite concentrate. Erik’s mind is always a beacon to Charles’s senses, but when he works with metal, the light grows blinding, impossible to ignore. There’s nothing that calms Erik quite as much as having metal in his hands, flowing at his command. It’s as close as Charles ever sees him to being truly peaceful.

Eventually he gives up on reading. Setting his book on the nightstand, he gets up to brush his teeth and then slides back into bed, leaving the lamp on for when Erik comes in later. Closing his eyes, he reaches out to trail his telepathy lightly along Erik’s mind until the bright ebb and flow of Erik’s thoughts gradually lulls him to sleep.

 

*

 

It storms all day on Friday. Standing at their bedroom window, Charles gazes out at the sheets of rain pouring down and ties his bowtie slowly, sighing. “My tux is going to be ruined.”

“I could have Azazel take you straight to the door,” Erik suggests. He’s lounging on their bed, watching Charles get dressed just as raptly as he usually watches Charles get _undressed_. He’s thinking about stripping the tux off of Charles later, tugging off that bowtie with his teeth. It’s very distracting.

Charles shakes his head. “I don’t want to make a scene. I’ll just bring an umbrella.”

Erik shrugs. “Suit yourself.”

Tugging at his cufflinks, Charles glances at the clock. 6:13. The drive shouldn’t take more than twenty minutes, though with the rain, traffic might be troublesome. In any case, he should probably leave soon. He hates being late.

“Shouldn’t you get dressed, too?” he asks as he grabs his suit jacket off the back of the armchair in the corner. When Erik raises a questioning eyebrow, Charles clarifies dryly, “For the movie you and Alex are going to see? What is it again?”

“Oh right.” Erik stretches out more comfortably on the bed. “We cancelled our plans.”

“Oh?”

Erik smirks. “He has a date.”

Charles glances at him with real interest. “Is it Darwin?”

“Yes, it’s the cop.” Erik frowns. “I thought I taught him better, but you’ve been a bad influence on him.”

“I _wish_ I could take credit for turning him away from his life of crime.”

“If you lured away one of my best men, I might have to kill you,” Erik muses.

“Oh, darling,” Charles says, flashing him a grin, “I’d like to see you try.”

Erik only makes a small, amused noise in reply.

Adjusting his cufflinks, Charles gazes critically at his reflection for another moment, tugs his bowtie a little straighter, and then says, “Well, let’s see my mask then.”

Erik rolls out of bed eagerly. “Come on. You’ll love it.”

He’s been tinkering in his makeshift workshop for the last two nights, refusing to let Charles take even a peek at his progress. It’d be effortless to just lift the images out of Erik’s head, but Charles respects his desire for secrecy, even if he doesn’t quite trust Erik’s vision. Yesterday afternoon, Charles had gone out and bought himself a simple, relatively cheap silver mask with white sequins along the edges. He’s stashed it behind a stack of books in his study, ready to be pulled out if Erik’s mask turns out...well, _unwearable_. But Erik hopefully never needs to know about that.

“I changed the metal I used from last time,” Erik explains as he tugs Charles toward the study. “Altered the alloy until I found something I liked. It’s more flexible now, which should make it easier to mold to your face. Plus it feels better. Smoother.”

“I’ll have to take your word for it.”

When they reach the study, Charles stops dead in the doorway. “This is...uh….”

“A mess,” Erik says quickly. “I know, I’ll clean it up.”

There’s metal curls, spirals, and scraps all over the floor and scattered across the desk, littering every visible surface. “Got a little carried away, did we?” Charles asks, a bit astonished by how much metal Erik went through. All for one mask?

“I had to make a few prototypes before I finally made one I liked,” Erik says. “Stay here. Don’t want you scuffing your shoes.”

Charles remains obediently in the doorway as Erik walks over to the desk. The metal on the floor parts for him, skittering away from his bare feet. Erik plucks the mask off the desk and hides it behind his back with a grin. “Ready?”

“Does this really warrant a dramatic reveal?” Charles huffs.

“A dramatic reveal never hurt anyone,” Erik replies snippily. But he doesn’t delay any longer: raising his hand, he sends the mask out from behind his back to float in the air between them, just in front of Charles’s face so he can examine it.

It’s...breathtaking, actually. Much simpler than Erik’s first design, and gorgeously elegant. Most of the metal is sleek black with accents of bright gold, the kind of gold that looks expensive rather than tawdry. The mask is designed to cover Charles’s eyes and the bridge of his nose, leaving the lower half of his face uncovered. On the right side of the mask, the metal plumes upward in sweeping gold flourishes, designed to imitate feathers, like the upraised wing of a bird about to take flight.

When Charles holds out his hand, Erik sends the mask over to settle gently into his palm. It’s much lighter than Charles had expected, much lighter than Erik’s first attempt. Charles runs his fingers over the feather patterns engraved into the mask over the eyes and says softly, “Erik, it’s beautiful.”

Erik grins, warm, simple pleasure bleeding across their mental bond. “You like it then.”

“I love it.” Charles turns it over in his hands and presses it up against his face. “How do I look?”

For a moment, Erik just stares at him, his eyes roving slowly over Charles’s face. Several emotions wash over him at once: satisfaction that Charles likes it, admiration at his own handiwork, pleasure that Charles is going to be wearing something Erik _made_ , awe at how absolutely gorgeous Charles looks in his tux and the mask.

“Well?” Charles prompts.

“You’re stunning,” Erik says simply.

Charles borrows Erik’s eyes for a moment to look at himself. Erik’s perception of him is always a little more flattering than Charles thinks he looks in reality, but it’s close enough to a mirror that Charles takes advantage of it sometimes (and honestly, it does wonders for Charles’s ego, so he isn’t above using it to pump himself up occasionally).

Erik’s right: the mask _does_ look good. Its sleek black finish complements Charles’s black tux nicely, its gold accents adding streaks of color to what otherwise might be too dark and uninteresting an ensemble. And Charles’s eyes, framed by the black metal, are luminous.

“It’s beautiful,” Charles repeats admiringly. “It’s marvelous work, darling.”

“Here.” Erik crosses the room and takes a hold of the two gold ribbons attached to either side of the mask. Gently, he ties the ribbons at the back of Charles’s head, securing the mask in place. “There. Now you’re perfect.”

Turning to face him, Charles tilts his head up and catches Erik’s mouth in a sweet, lingering kiss. Not for the first time, he regrets not being able to secure Erik an invitation to the gala. He knows he’ll probably enjoy tonight—he does love a fancy party—but he also knows that he’d enjoy it a whole lot more with Erik by his side. Everything is much more enjoyable with Erik by his side.

“There,” he says, pulling back. “ _Now_ I’m perfect.”

Erik smoothes his hands down the lapels of Charles’s dinner jacket, his eyes trailing down Charles’s torso with approval. “You should wear a vest all the time. I can’t wait to take this off you later.”

“Only if you behave yourself,” Charles says.

Erik snorts. “When do I _ever_ —”

“Don’t finish that sentence, darling,” Charles says fondly, patting Erik’s cheek. As an afterthought he slides his ring off his finger and hands it to Erik for safekeeping. “Is Janos here yet? I’m going to be late if I don’t leave soon.”

Janos is waiting downstairs with the town car, parked under the awning of their building to keep dry. He’s leaning against the driver’s door when Charles and Erik exit the lobby and smiles when his eyes fall on Charles. “Very nice.”

“Are you hitting on my hu—hot boyfriend?” Erik says, raising an eyebrow.

 _Nice save_ , Charles tells him dryly. Aloud he says, “It was an innocent compliment, darling, that’s all. Thank you, Janos.”

Janos smirks and comes around to open the passenger seat door. “I’ve taken a look at the GPS. It should be a seventeen-minute drive.”

“Perfect.” Charles slides into the car and directs a stern look at Erik. “Behave.”

Erik raises both hands. “What else am I going to do without you?”

He looks ridiculously casual, standing there in front of the polished-brass doors of their building in gray sweatpants and a t-shirt that reads CONEY ISLAND HOT DOG EATING CHAMPION. Charles kind of loves him. A lot.

“Watch a movie and order a pizza,” Charles tells him before swinging the car door shut.

Erik lifts his hand in a wave.

 


	2. The Party

The gala is resplendent. Charles is no stranger to extravagant venues, but even he has to pause for a moment to catch his breath when he first arrives. Kuo has rented a grand ballroom for the night, and he’s clearly spared no expense in decorating it. The room is dazzlingly gold: gold railings, gold-rimmed plates on the tables, golden vases holding golden lilies. What isn’t gold is sparkling crystal and flowing white: elegant crystal chandeliers scattered throughout the room, thick white tablecloths, silver-white chairs decorated with silk ribbons tied in neat bows. The white-gray marble floors are so polished Charles can practically see his reflection in them. He adjusts his mask slightly so it isn’t pressing so tightly against his nose and steps further into the room.

While the ballroom is solidly themed in gold, silver, and white, the gala’s attendees set the room awash with color. Several women glide past Charles in flowing red, blue, and green dresses. Their masks are colorful, too, boasting feathers and gemstones in all shades and sizes. More than a few of the men have opted to go with colorful bowties and masks as well. It’s enough to make Charles feel almost staid in his conservatively black attire.

Yes, he thinks as he snags a flute of champagne off a passing waiter. This party would have been a hell of a lot more fun with Erik here.

He spends a few minutes wandering through the assorted tables, observing the guests as they congregate in small clusters. The masks obscure almost everyone’s faces so Charles doesn’t immediately recognize anyone, though he’s sure there are more than a few of his parents’ old friends milling about. Kuo and his parents used to run in the same circles, after all, and it doesn’t look like that’s changed. Perhaps he’ll run into old Mrs. West, he muses. She always used to be sweet on him.

“Charles Xavier. Is that you?”

Charles turns and comes face-to-face—mask-to-mask, really—with a tall, broad-shouldered man in an electric blue tuxedo with a messily-tied black bowtie. His sleek red mask covers the left half of his face and arches over his right eye. A scruffy black beard covers most of the rest of his face, giving him a bit of an unruly look. His gaze is dark, warm, and vaguely familiar.

“I thought I recognized you,” the stranger says, smiling. “Peter _did_ mention you were coming.”

“Peter?” Charles echoes dumbly. Then he remembers that Mr. Kuo’s first name is Peter and shakes his head. “Of course, Peter. Right.”

The stranger cocks his head. “You don’t recognize me, do you?”

“I’m afraid not,” Charles says apologetically.

The man _tsks._ “I thought he would’ve mentioned me.”

“My invitation was last-minute,” Charles explains. He studies the stranger’s eyes, certain he knows them from somewhere. But after a moment, when nothing clicks, he says ruefully, “Give me a hint?”

“We used to sneak out of these kinds of parties together. One time we stole a whole bottle of wine and got drunk in your room.  All those good times and you forgot me?” The stranger clutches at his chest dramatically. “I’m hurt.”

Charles’s eyes widen. “Diego? Diego Mendoza?”

The man’s smile widens. “That’s me.”

He’s almost unrecognizable from the gangly fifteen-year-old boy in Charles’s memory. Gone are the braces, the wild hair, and the slightly awkward stooped shoulders. Diego has completely grown up—which, Charles thinks wryly, shouldn’t be nearly as much of a surprise as it is. It’s been nearly twenty years, after all.

Grinning, he thrusts out his hand. “It’s good to see you again. It’s been a long time, hasn’t it?”

“Too long,” Diego says. He circumvents Charles’s hand and pulls him into a warm hug, thumping him on the back. “You kind of just disappeared.”

“Yes, well. I went off to Oxford as soon as I could.”

“I know. And you left me to face all the stupid family parties alone.”

Charles laughs. “I’m sorry. In my defense, we both _did_ say that if we got a chance to get away from our families, we would.” He glances Diego up and down. “You look good. What have you been up to?”

Diego grins. “I got out of the family business after all, like you. I’m a teacher.”

Charles gives him a delighted look. “So am I!”

“I know. I might’ve looked you up once.” Diego’s grin turns slightly bashful. “I’m not a fancy professor or anything. I teach high school history.”

“That’s excellent!” Charles exclaims. “Oh, Diego, I’m so glad you didn’t take over your mother’s business. You always hated real estate.”

“Yeah, I did. And you hated...whatever the fuck your parents did. What the hell did they do again? I never got a clear idea.”

“Investments, mostly,” Charles says. “They invested and they threw parties.”

Diego groans. “God, those were some shitty parties. I used to think about throwing away the invitations that came in the mail so my parents wouldn’t know about it and I wouldn’t have to go.”

Charles laughs. “They were always quite stuffy, weren’t they? But we had fun.”

“We didn’t have fun _in_ the parties,” Diego says wryly. “We had fun sneaking _out_ of them. Do you remember that one Christmas party where we ducked out after dinner and went to climb that tree behind your house? The one by the pond?”

“And you fell off it,” Charles remembers, laughing. “Straight into a snowdrift. God, I’ll never forget the sound you made. _Whumph_.”

Diego throws back his head and laughs. His amusement is contagious, spilling out from him like warm sunlight spilling in through a window. Charles laughs, too, clapping Diego on the shoulder. Maybe tonight won’t be too bad, he thinks. At least he knows Diego doesn’t take these kinds of grandiose parties any more seriously than Charles does.

“Ladies and gentlemen?”

Both of them turn to find a man on the small dais at the front of the room next to the string quartet, which has paused in its rendition of Brandenburg’s Concerto Number 2. The man leans into the microphone and says again, “Ladies and gentlemen, please take your seats. Dinner will be served in a moment, and Mr. Kuo will be up here to say a few words.”

The room is filled with rustling as everyone begins to shuffle around to take their seats. “Would you like to sit together?” Charles asks, smiling.

“Of course.” Diego glances around, then gestures to a nearby table that’s half-empty. “Here?”

“Perfect.”

The other guests at the table seem to know each other already, and they introduce themselves rapid-fire. Taking a seat next to Diego, Charles smiles, introduces himself in return, and tugs off his mask in anticipation of eating.

“Now that is gorgeous,” says the older lady next to him—Mrs. Eleanor Baird, according to her introduction. “Where did you get it? Is it custom made?”

Charles runs a finger over the mask’s golden feather design. “You could say that. My boyfriend made it for me.”

She looks startled at the word _boyfriend_ for a moment, but it’s only temporary surprise, buried almost immediately beneath a polite mask. Glancing admiringly at the mask, she asks, “Does he make those for a living?”

Charles snorts. Erik doesn’t have the patience to be an artist, not for the long term anyway. “No, not at all. He’s just good with metal.”

Mrs. Baird glances around. “He’s not here tonight?”

“No, I’m afraid he’s otherwise occupied.” Probably. Even though Charles had refused any type of surveillance or monitoring equipment, he still vaguely suspects that Erik’s camped outside in a van somewhere, waiting for an opportunity to sneak in. Charles hasn’t reached out with his telepathy to check.

“My husband couldn’t make it either,” Mrs. Baird says. “Business trip.” She smiles slyly at Charles. “I suppose we’ll have to entertain ourselves.”

Charles laughs. “Yes, I suppose so.”

A moment later, the room hushes as Kuo takes the stage. He’s a large man, of average height but stout, grown stouter with age. Charles remembers him as soft-spoken but commanding, with an uncanny ability to make every word coming out of his mouth seem utterly reasonable. He’s wearing a small, simple mask just across his eyes, gold with glittering blue stones on the borders. Though he’s certainly a man who enjoys spectacle, he’s one of the more conservatively dressed attendees tonight.

“Good evening, everyone,” he says into a microphone, raising one hand in greeting. His accent has faded over time, not quite as pronounced as it is in Charles’s memory. “It’s wonderful to see all the tables here full. Thank you for coming. I speak for myself and also for the Nature Conservancy. As you all know, all—and I do mean _all_ —the proceeds from tonight’s gala will be donated to the Nature Conservancy in the effort to help protect our earth. We have a few guests with us tonight from this wonderful organization…” He shades his eyes as he looks out over the audience, then smiles. “Of course, it’s a little hard to spot them with all the masks out there.”

Gentle laughter ripples through the crowd. Kuo says, “Well anyway, I’ll have them come up a little later and give us some more details about the cause. For now, I want to welcome everyone and thank you for coming. Don’t enjoy dinner too much because remember, there’s going to be dancing after!”

After a round of light applause, the waiters begin to cart out the first course. Everyone at the table unmasks, and there’s some idle admiring of everyone’s masks of choice as the waiters serve the salads.

As Charles picks up his fork, Diego says beside him, “So, boyfriend, huh?”

Charles nods. “Yes.” Then he remembers that he and Diego had fallen out of touch before Charles had come out. “Is that a surprise?”

“Not really.” Diego pauses, then shrugs. “Kind of. I mean, I never really thought of you as....dating anyone, you know? You were always that little troublemaker to me.”

“Hey, _you_ were the one who always got us into trouble,” Charles corrects.

“Practically everything we did was your idea!”

“But you were the one who got us caught,” Charles says dryly.

Diego laughs softly. “Okay, point taken.” Drizzling his salad with a generous amount of ranch, he says, “So this boyfriend got a name?”

“Erik.”

When Charles doesn’t elaborate, Diego waves his fork expectantly. “And? Come on, I haven’t heard from you in forever. Tell me about your life.”

Charles laughs. “Okay. Well, his name is Erik, he’s a businessman, and we’ve been together for six years now.”

Diego shoots him an impressed look. “That long? So how come you aren’t married yet?”

Charles stifles the urge to say, “Well _actually…”_ He’s acutely aware of his empty ring finger. Shrugging, he says casually, “We just haven’t felt ready yet. We’re comfortable with things as they are right now.”

“Fair enough.”

Charles glances at him. “So what about you? Anyone special in your life?”

“Not for longer than a few weeks,” Diego says, grinning. “What can I say? I’m not ready to settle down yet.”

“I know that feeling,” Charles says wryly, thinking of the days before Erik had come into his life. “Anyone special right now?”

“Well…” Diego pushes a few croutons around on his plate. “Sort of. I actually have a date tomorrow.” He grins. “Wish me luck, right?”

“I wish you the _best_ of luck,” Charles says, smiling.

Dinner passes in a pleasant, slow flow of conversation. Falling back in with Diego is easy: Diego is nice, interesting, and wickedly funny. They spend most of the next hour recounting stories from their shared youth, then chatting about their current lives. Diego teaches at a school in Harlem, working mainly with eleventh graders. He’s obviously passionate about his career, his quiet joy spilling over into Charles’s mind as he talks about his favorite students and the most recent lessons they’ve gone over. It’s nice that Diego’s found his calling, Charles thinks, smiling as he listens attentively. Diego’s the closest thing Charles had to a best friend in his childhood—aside from Raven, of course—and it’s gratifying to know that he’s happy.

After dinner, there’s dancing, as Mr. Kuo promised. As the string quartet begins a series of waltzes, everyone dons their masks and, in pairs and groups, slowly gravitate to the expansive dance floor in the center of the circle of tables.

“You gonna dance?” Diego asks, pulling his own mask back on.

Charles shakes his head and pats his belly. “I think I’m going to sit here and recover from that chocolate cake.”

Diego grins and shrugs. “Suit yourself.”

Rising, he melts into the crowd of black tuxedos and colorful cocktail dresses. Charles watches him go, then turns his attention to the rest of the throng. It’s time to get down to business.

Finding Kuo doesn’t take much effort: he has a distinctive mind, silver-tinged and rigidly disciplined, characterized by the laser-sharp focus that’s made him such a successful businessman. He’s across the room but within Charles’s line of sight, so Charles simply sits at his table, sips on his half-finished glass of wine, and observes him.

How best to approach Kuo? Normally Charles would be reluctant to bring up business matters at a charity event like this, but men like Kuo never take a true break from work. Case in point: he’s chatting with a tall, black-haired woman in a brilliantly sparkling green dress, and from a quick brush against their minds, Charles knows that they aren’t discussing frivolities.

His phone buzzes in his inner jacket pocket and he tugs it out, giving Kuo another long look before checking the screen. It’s Erik of course.

_how’s it going?_

_Fine,_ Charles types back. _What are you up to?_

_pizza_.

That text is followed by a picture of a half-finished pizza box on their couch. Surprised, Charles sends, _You really aren’t camped outside in a van?_

_i’m not a *stalker*,_ Erik replies, and Charles can practically see his eye roll. _you told me to stay home so i did. besides sitting in a van for x hrs is boring anyway. it’s just a gala._

Charles smiles fondly and sends back, _It’s heartwarming when you actually listen to me,_ followed by a string of heart emojis.

_you mean 150% of the time?_ Erik answers.

Now it’s Charles’s turn to roll his eyes. _Don’t push it_.

Sliding his phone back into his pocket, he looks up and sees the black-haired woman now following a gentleman in a garish purple mask onto the dance floor. Kuo has turned away to get a drink. Now or never, Charles thinks, pushing himself to his feet. It’s only a matter of time before someone else takes the opportunity to snag Kuo’s attention.

“Mr. Kuo,” Charles says, switching on his most charming smile as he approaches.

Kuo turns to him, frowns, then grins in recognition. “Charles Xavier! How long has it been?”

“Too long,” Charles says, shaking his hand warmly. “It’s good to see you, sir.”

“The last time I saw you, you only came up to here!” Kuo exclaims, gesturing at his shoulder. “Now I hear you’re a professor?”

“At Columbia,” Charles says, nodding. “And you’re as successful as ever. Your stocks are at an all-time high, aren’t they?”

Kuo chuckles. “Yes, yes. It’s been a very good time for me and my partners. We’ve expanded our businesses to all fifty states now, and there’s talk about moving overseas as well.”

“From what I’ve heard, you opened a couple of trial stores in Canada,” Charles says nonchalantly, as if he hadn’t just spent the last couple of days reading up on all the latest news about Korse International. “You’ve met with a warm reception, haven’t you?”

“They’re relatively new,” Kuo says, “but we’re tentatively declaring them a success. Barring disaster—which won’t happen, mind you—we’re only a year or two away from expanding internationally.”

“That’s wonderful,” Charles says, smiling. He plucks a glass of champagne off of a passing tray and toasts Kuo. “To your success. May it only grow bigger.”

Kuo smiles, his mind radiating pleasure. “Thank you.”

Charles takes a sip from the flute, pauses long enough to allow a subject change to feel natural, and then asks, “So are you still living in that big old house in Suffolk?”

Kuo nods. “We’ve been living there for too long to move away now. My children would riot if I ever thought about getting rid of it. It’s my daughter mostly.” He shakes his head ruefully. “She’s sentimental about the place.”

“Well, she grew up in it,” Charles says reasonably. “I’m sure she has lots of good memories there.”

“I know.”

Charles studies Kuo’s mind for a moment, assessing. Kuo’s thoughts have slowed slightly as he allows himself to relax more, to enjoy the music and the dancing and take a short break from business thoughts. In a few moments, Charles thinks, he might be amenable to talking deals. Right now, he could benefit from a few minutes of unrelated conversation.

He’s just about to ask after Kuo’s children when another mind snags his attention. Scanning the crowd, he finds the mind in question seated at a table across the room. Taking another sip of champagne, Charles studies the man surreptitiously, probing subtly at the man’s mind to try to make sense of the dissonance there. Everyone else in the room is various shades of happiness, contentment, buzzed, bored, sleepy, excited, but this man—this man’s mind reads _intent_ , and all his focus lands squarely on Kuo.

He doesn’t look out of place: he’s in a black tuxedo with a yellow tie and a matching yellow mask. And yet, the dark current to his mind singles him out. After a moment of consideration, Charles dives deeper, keeping his touch light and undetectable, and— _oh_.

He withdraws to his own mind and just barely manages to refrain from heaving a long-suffering sigh. Erik’s going to be _insufferable_ after this.

“Excuse me for a moment,” Charles tells Kuo. “I have to take a call.”

Stepping away, he dials Erik, keeping his eye on the man in the yellow mask.

“Hey,” Erik says when he picks up. “Bored already?”

“Not quite,” Charles says. “I have a feeling things are going to get a little more exciting here.”

“What, the string quartet’s going to break out some pop songs?”

Charles huffs. “No. You don’t happen to have your tux at the ready, do you?”

There’s a long, suspicious pause. “Is this a trick question?”

“No, darling.”

“And if I said yes?”

“I’d ask you to come join me.”

There’s another pause, this one longer and even more suspicious. “Is this a test?”

Charles laughs softly. “No. Do you really think I’d test you like that? Come join me, Erik. There’s something here that requires your attention, so do try to hurry.”

“Something like...your cock?” Erik asks. His smirk is _audible_.

Charles nearly hangs up on him right then and there, but the matter _is_ kind of pressing. “Just come,” he sighs. “And do you have a mask? There’s one behind the books on the third shelf of my bookcase.”

“You bought one just in case, didn’t you?” Erik demands, aggravated. “I _knew_ it. You seriously didn’t trust me—”

“Can we have this argument later?”

“Fine,” Erik grumbles. “I don’t need your cheap piece of plastic, I made a spare mask just in case you didn’t like the one I gave you.”

Charles smiles. “I thought you might’ve. Let me know when you’re here. I’ll nudge the doorman to let you in.”

They have a bit of time; Yellow Mask—Charles ducks back into his mind and comes up with his name, Gary Walsh—is brooding over his plan, not quite ready to spring to action yet. If he decides to make a move before Erik arrives, Charles figures he can always go over and stall him for a minute, then another, as long as they need. But it turns out they don’t need long at all: Erik’s mind enters his awareness within the next ten minutes, and, surprised and pleased, Charles encourages the doorman to look the other way just long enough for Erik to slip in.

A minute later, Erik appears at the doors, his face anonymous behind a royal purple mask trimmed with shimmery gold. But Charles recognizes him in the gorgeous cut of his tux, the perfect line of his posture, the way his bowtie is a little slanted to the left because Erik can never tie it straight. When Charles brushes affectionately across his mind, Erik sweeps his gaze across the crowd until he finds him, then begins to thread his way through the clusters of dancers.

“Hello, stranger,” Charles purrs when Erik reaches his side. “You look familiar.”

“Do I?” Erik asks, plucking the glass of champagne from Charles’s hand. “No, I don't think we've met.”

“Rude,” Charles says, sliding his arm around Erik’s waist. A sniff reveals that Erik even took the time to dab on some of that peppery cologne that Charles likes best. _How did you get here so quickly?_ Charles asks, leaning in to take a deeper whiff. _Azazel?_

“He’s upset I called him away from his night. He was actually winning at poker.”

“I’ll make it up to him later,” Charles promises.

“I know.” Erik smirks. “That’s what I told him.” He finishes the last of Charles’s champagne in two swallows and then sets the empty flute down on a nearby table. “So why exactly did you call me here? I thought you said this was a boring old gala where nothing interesting could possibly happen.”

“I was mistaken.”

Erik gives him a delighted look. “Say that again so I can savor it.”

“Shut up,” Charles mutters. Guiding Erik to turn with the hand on his back, he casually shifts them so that they have a clear view of Walsh. “See that man sitting alone at the table there?”

Erik’s thoughts sharpen in consideration. “He doesn’t look like he’s having fun.”

“That’s because he’s planning on killing Mr. Kuo tonight,” Charles says, keeping his tone low and pleasant to keep from drawing attention. “And you’re going to stop him.”

There’s a long, tense pause. Running his powers over all the metal in the area, Erik glances first at the exits, then at the crowd, then back over at Walsh. “ _You’re_ not going to stop him?”

Charles leans in close and pats Erik on the chest. “ _I’m_ not the one trying to get into Kuo’s good graces.”

Erik’s eyes widen in realization. For a moment, he just looks at Charles quizzically. Then, shaking his head in disbelief, he says slowly, “Let me get this straight: You had me come here to stop an assassination attempt...in order to get Kuo to notice me?”

“It’s more than that,” Charles huffs. “He’ll be indebted to you, Erik, and I know for a fact that Mr. Kuo takes his debts very seriously.” When Erik just continues to look at him as if he’s lost his mind, Charles cocks his head. “What?”

“Nothing. It just seems…” Erik grins. “It just seems like a plan _I’d_ come up with.”

“No, it isn’t,” Charles grumbles, “because you never come up with good plans.”

“I’m just saying,” Erik says, undeterred, “I didn’t think you would be this callous. Risking a man’s life for the sake of a business deal? That’s something I would do.”

“Thank you for reminding me that you’re a terrible person,” Charles says dryly. “But I’m not risking anyone’s life—if it gets too far, I’ll shut that man down myself. But why waste an opportunity when we have it?”

Erik runs his hand down Charles’s back approvingly, his palm warm even through the layers. “I _have_ been a good influence on you.”

“Are you going to spend the whole night gloating?”

“No.” Erik grins. “Just most of it. But first…” He turns to cast a subtle glance at Walsh, who’s too intently focused on Kuo to notice them studying him anyway. “How is he planning on killing Kuo? I don’t feel any weapon on him.”

“He’s a mutant,” Charles replies. He’d glimpsed as much earlier when he’d dipped into the man’s mind. “He can fire poisonous spikes from his hands.”

“Great. It couldn’t be _easy_.”

Charles pats his back affectionately. “You’ve always loved to make a scene, Erik, let’s not pretend otherwise.”

Erik surveys the metal in the room again. “Why does he want to kill Kuo anyway? Personal vendetta?”

“He’s just a hitman, but I imagine whoever hired him had some personal grievances. Kuo is an excellent businessman, but I have no doubt he’s made a few enemies along the way. Who these enemies are, I can’t say. I’m sure the NYPD can follow up once you’ve wrapped things up here.”

“It seems like you’ve got everything planned out.”

“Now I trust you to take things from here.”

“I will.” Erik takes another flute of champagne when a waitress pauses to offer her tray to them and takes a sip. “Is he planning on moving anytime soon?”

“I imagine he’s waiting for the right moment to strike,” Charles replies. He glances over at Kuo, who’s surrounded by a group of friends near the stage. “He’ll probably want to get Kuo alone if he can, or at least in an isolated corner.”

“That might be a while,” Erik muses, eyeing the crowd.

“Probably,” Charles agrees. He steals the flute of champagne from Erik’s hand, drains it, sets it down on the table, and takes Erik’s hand. “Dance with me.”

“It’s a waltz,” Erik says. “I hate waltzes.” But he allows himself to be pulled to the dance floor anyway, and when Charles steps into his space and guides him into the first steps, he doesn’t pull away.

Charles learned to waltz when he was eight years old, and he’s very good at it, in a practiced, mechanical sort of way. He has no idea where Erik learned to waltz (that story is from a part of Erik’s life that Erik doesn’t like to talk about, even now), but Erik’s movements are much less precise and much more relaxed. Though his steps aren’t quite as exact as Charles’s, they flow a little better, with more instinct for rhythm than Charles has. Charles has always thought Erik would be an exceptional dancer if he would admit to himself that he actually likes dancing.

“People have been admiring your handiwork all night long,” Charles says. When Erik frowns, Charles clarifies, “My mask. It’s obviously the best one in the whole room.”

Erik preens, pleasure rolling off him at the praise. “Obviously.”

“I like yours as well,” Charles says, letting his gaze trail over the golden curlicues twining their way around Erik’s mask. It’s quite lovely. “Have you thought about making a career of this?”

“Yes,” Erik says dryly. _Let me just hand the reins of my empire over to Alex, and I’ll get right on it._

_Just listing some retirement options_ , Charles replies, grinning.

Slowly, they gravitate toward where Kuo and a handful of other guests have congregated. Erik turns them so he can keep an eye on Walsh while Charles watches Kuo, and for a few minutes, they simply sway along to the music, comfortably pressed close. One of these days, Charles thinks with a sigh, they’ll attend a party like this without having to worry about business deals and hitmen. Maybe not today, but one can hope.

They’re close enough that Charles overhears Kuo excuse himself to go to the bathroom. He squeezes Erik’s hand, and Erik nods, jerking his head slightly behind him. Walsh has gotten up from his table for the first time all evening and is steadily making his way toward the doors of the ballroom.

“Show time,” Charles murmurs.

As they tail Kuo to the doors, Charles reaches on ahead and brushes across Walsh’s mind. He’s ahead of all of them, already down the hall and at the bathroom door. A quick sweep of the bathroom and the hall outside reveals no other guests, no security. There won’t be a better opportunity all night.

_Maybe you should stay outside the bathroom,_ Erik suggests. _I don’t want you getting caught in any crossfire._

_No,_ Charles says firmly. He won’t be able to help as quickly or easily if he’s stuck waiting in the hallway outside, and as confident as he is that Erik can take care of Walsh without much difficulty, he also doesn’t want to leave Erik’s back unguarded.

_I’m not sure why I even asked,_ Erik sighs.

_Ready?_ Charles asks as they near the bathroom door. He can feel Walsh by the sinks, pretending to wash his hands.

In reply, Erik pushes the heavy bathroom door open with his powers, leading the way in.

Walsh glances sharply up at them as they enter, and his mind begins to whir, trying to decide if he should act or back down, avoid witnesses. Or, he considers, he could kill these two men, too, collateral damage. It’s not ideal, but he’s not sure he’ll get another chance at Kuo tonight—it’s nearly ten, after all, and the gala will be concluding soon…

Trying to conceal how jittery he is with adrenaline, Charles runs his hands under the faucet closest to the door, carefully soaping up his hands and scrubbing them. Beside him, Erik leans over the sink, pretending to examine his mask in the mirror.

Walsh’s suspicion begins to rise the longer they stay silent, so Charles says casually, “Quite hot in there, isn’t it, darling? I almost wish I hadn’t worn the vest.”

Erik doesn’t glance away from the mirror. “But I like the vest,” he replies. “You’re sexy in the vest.”

“Of course I am, but that doesn’t mean it stops being hot.” He slides his mask off to improve his peripheral vision, ruffling a hand through his sweat-damp hair.

In one of the stalls behind them, the toilet flushes. It’s Kuo, of course. Walsh’s gaze darts up in the mirror to look at the stall door, then over at Erik and Charles, who dips into his mind.

_They’re not leaving anytime soon, and Kuo’s going to be gone in a minute._ But, he considers, the hallway outside is probably still empty. He can follow Kuo out, put a couple of spikes in his back, and then slip out through a side door undetected. Simple as that.

He turns off the faucet and cranks out a towel. A moment later, Kuo emerges from the stall, steps to the empty sink between Charles and Walsh, and begins to wash his hands. He glances briefly up into the mirror, then pauses in surprise when he spots Charles there. “Charles! There you are. Have you been hiding in here this whole time? I expected you to find me after dinner was over.”

“I was going to,” Charles says, forcing a casual smile, “but I got caught up.”

“Didn’t you want to talk to me about some business?” Kuo switches off the faucet and reaches for a towel. “You were interested in that land up by Lake Placid, weren’t you?”

“Yes, I was.”

Kuo claps Charles on the shoulder. “Why don’t we talk? I have several buyers interested in that land, you know. I want to hear what you have to say.”

“Sure,” Charles says, only half-listening. The greater part of his attention is focused on Walsh, who’s tensed, ready to spring. There’s no way to catch Kuo alone in the hall now, he’s thinking. _Kuo first, then these two._

_Erik!_ Charles says sharply. He seizes Kuo’s arm, drags Kuo behind him. Just as Walsh lunges, Erik rips the stall door off its hinges with a jerk of his hand and slams it down in front of them as a shield. Over Kuo’s frightened yell, Charles hears Walsh’s snarl, hears him slam up against the metal. He presses back against Kuo, backing them up against the opposite wall, and watches as Erik pulls another stall door to him to join the first, then another. Then, squeezing his hand into a fist, Erik crumples the metal around Walsh, who lets out a single, startled yelp before the metal closes over him with a shriek, trapping him in a cocoon.

The silence that follows is deafening. For a moment, they all just stand there, breathing heavily. Then Erik says, “That should hold him until the cops get here.”

“What the _hell_ just happened?” Kuo demands, shaking with shock and bewilderment.

The fight lasted barely twenty seconds, but the resulting adrenaline rush has Charles’s fingers trembling. “That man just tried to kill you,” he says slowly, steadily.

“ _Why?”_

“I don’t know.” Charles hesitates, considering how much to reveal. Finally, he says, “We should call the police.”

From inside the cocoon, they can hear Walsh banging against the wall, trying to break his way out. Raising a hand, Erik summons a wall panel from the already-destroyed stalls and reinforces the cocoon, weaving the metal seamlessly together. The banging grows noticeably muffled.  

Kuo stares at his display of power with wide eyes. “Who are you?”

Erik turns toward him and tugs his mask off his face. Smoothing down his mussed up hair, he says, “Erik Lehnsherr.”

Kuo’s gaze travels from Erik to the cocoon, then back. “You saved my life,” he says slowly.

Erik straightens his wrinkled suit jacket. “I guess I was in the right place at the right time.”

“And thank god for that,” Kuo breathes, staring at Erik with barely-concealed relief, and awe.

_That’s it_ , Charles tells Erik. He reaches out and nudges the mind of the first security guard he encounters. _Tell him security’s on their way, and then come over here and be comforting._

“Security will be here soon,” Erik says, stepping over to take Kuo’s arm. “Are you hurt?”

“No, no...I’m fine.” Kuo glances quickly at Charles. “Are you…?”

“Completely fine,” Charles says. “Thanks to Erik.”  

A storm of emotion whirls in Kuo’s mind: fear, shock, confusion, disbelief, amazement, gratitude. The last one is a good sign. He’s definitely connected his rescue with Erik, who is, as far as Kuo’s concerned, the hero of the night.

Security bursts in and freezes for a moment in the doorway, staring at the destruction. Two out of three stalls have been torn apart, as well as some of the tiled floor. Part of the mirror is cracked, a victim of flying debris. Five slim spikes are embedded in the wall above the soap dispenser, probably flung there after they’d deflected off Erik’s metal shield. The bathroom’s nothing short of a mess.

“What the _fuck_ happened in here?” demands the first guard in the doorway, his hand frozen over his service weapon.

“That man—” Kuo jabs a finger at the metal cocoon. “—tried to kill me. And this man,” he claps a hand on Erik’s shoulder, “saved my life.”

_Look at that,_ Erik thinks. _I’m the big damn hero_.

Charles bites back a smile. _Yes, darling. Yes, you are_.

 

*

 

Attempted murder tends to put an end to any ongoing festivities, and tonight is no exception. Once the police arrive, the guests clear out rapidly, save for the ones who witnessed the incident—Erik, Charles, one woman who saw them heading for the bathroom, and of course Kuo himself.

Erik’s used to steering clear of the police, so it grates on him to be forthright with them now when they ask for his statement. But, as Charles reminds him, he hasn’t done anything wrong tonight. Even better, he’s being hailed as a hero, even by the cops, which is definitely new to him. It is, he has to admit, kind of nice.

_Kind of?_ Charles snorts. _You’re reveling in this, don’t deny it._

Erik sniffs. _It’s about time they acknowledged my power._

_You’re going to be preening all night, aren’t you? Never mind, don’t answer that_.

Erik smirks at him. Charles is across the hall at the moment, speaking lowly to a police officer with a pen and a yellow legal pad in hand. He’s laid aside his mask for now and stands with his hands tucked into the pockets of his slacks, looking like some tousled young lord from Downton Abbey. His hair is a mess from wearing the mask all evening, and Erik wants nothing more than to cross the hall and smooth it down. He also wants to untie Charles’s bowtie with his teeth, but that would probably be less acceptable in public.

Charles sends him a current of gentle, dry amusement, along with the impression of _soon_.

“Mr. Lehnsherr!”

Erik turns to find Kuo striding toward him. For a man who survived an assassination attempt not even a full hour ago, Kuo is remarkably put together. His thinning hair is slightly disheveled and there’s a bit of dust on his sleeves and the hem of his black slacks, but other than that, he might have just come straight from the dance floor. He’s even smiling slightly, no trace of shock lingering in his expression or his bearing. Erik has to admire his composure.

“I wanted to thank you again for what you did in there,” Kuo says, clapping Erik on the arm. “If it weren’t for you, I’m sure I’d be dead.”

Erik shrugs. “Like I said, I just happened to be in the right place at the right time.”

“You didn’t have to intervene, but you did. I’m indebted to you, my friend. Is there anything I can do to repay you?”

Erik considers for a moment. Pressing the land matter right now is too soon, too coincidental to keep from raising Kuo’s suspicions about Erik’s motives. After some deliberation, Erik suggests, “How about lunch? Next Tuesday?”

“Lunch?” Kuo looks taken aback for a moment. Then he laughs in disbelief, shaking his head. “You save my life and all you ask for is a meal? Really?”

Erik gives the man his most charming smile. “There are a few things I’d like to discuss with you, actually.”

Before he can say anything more, a police officer comes over. “Excuse me, sir? Mr. Kuo, we have a couple of follow-up questions to ask you. Shouldn’t take too long.”

“Okay. Just a second...” Kuo takes a pen from his pocket, borrows a page from the officer’s legal pad, and writes down a number. “That’s my cell. Give me a call, and we’ll set up lunch, all right?”

“Perfect,” Erik says, folding the page up and slipping it into his pocket.

As soon as Kuo’s gone, Charles makes his way over to Erik’s side, smiling. “Hello, darling,” he says, leaning up to press a kiss to the side of Erik’s mouth. He slides his arm around Erik’s waist and tugs him close. “Good talk with Mr. Kuo, I hope?”

“We’re having lunch on Tuesday. It’s a start.”

“It’s more than a start,” Charles says wryly. “You’re in his good graces now. Honestly, it’s more than you could’ve hoped for at the start of the evening. I think I should be handsomely rewarded for all the good I’ve done you tonight.”

“Handsomely, huh?” Erik growls, nuzzling Charles’s ear. “I have a few ideas.”

Charles nearly purrs.

 


	3. The Climax

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is literally just sex.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for bearing with us! Sorry it's a day late, we just...forgot to post laughjkds.

Azazel deposits them back at their penthouse rapidly and grumpily. After they’ve quieted Rosie (who immediately starts begging for belly rubs from Azazel the moment she’s gotten over his sudden appearance), Charles combs a hand through his ruffled hair and says, “Thank you, Azazel. Would you, ah—would you like a cup of tea? Something to drink?”

Erik glares at Azazel over Charles’s shoulder, hoping his eyes are making it clear that Azazel is to leave, _now_.

“No,” Azazel says dryly. “I know that look.”

“What look?” Charles demands, his voice going slightly breathless as Erik gropes his ass. _Stop that, Erik_.

Azazel’s expression is utterly unimpressed. “I’m leaving, and I’m billing you for tonight’s services.”

He vanishes in a burst of smoke, leaving Rosie to bark loudly in confusion. As Charles soothes her with ear scratches and kisses, Erik fetches a rawhide, tosses it down the hall for Rosie to chase, and takes advantage of her distraction to press Charles up against the wall, his whole body already hot with arousal.

“Feeling impatient?” Charles smirks.

“Shut up.”

When Charles opens his mouth again, Erik reinforces the command with a kiss, hard and bruising and hungry. Charles makes a pleased noise in the back of his throat and winds his arms around Erik’s back, his hands pressed against Erik’s shoulder blades to pull him closer.

 _The way you overpowered Walsh earlier,_ Charles says. He shares the memory with Erik: his awe, pride, and undeniable _arousal_ at how quickly and effectively Erik used his mutation, at the thrum of sheer _power_ coursing through Erik’s body when he’d trapped Walsh in that metal cocoon. _God,_ Charles breathes, eyes slipping closed at the memory, _that was fucking hot_.

Erik grins sharply against his mouth, pride and pleasure shivering down his spine. _I should do that more often._

 _I hope you don’t have to_ , Charles replies, digging his teeth gently into Erik’s bottom lip.

_But if I do, you want to be there._

_I **do** like watching you work. _ Charles sucks on Erik’s lip for a moment, then pushes his tongue into Erik’s mouth.

Allowing Charles to direct the kiss, Erik focuses more on getting their clothes off. He tugs Charles’s dress shirt out of his trousers and works at the buttons, annoyed that they’re plastic. As he fumbles with them, Charles’s quick hands push Erik’s suit jacket off one arm, then the other, allowing it to drop to the floor in a heap.

Erik detects a brief flash of regret—it’s Charles, thinking they really should hang up the jacket, and their trousers and shirts for that matter, because proper etiquette was trained into Charles since he was literally a baby—and then Charles thinks distinctly, _Oh well_ , rips Erik’s bowtie off, and hurls it somewhere behind Erik’s back.

“As lovely as this is,” Charles gasps against Erik’s mouth, “my back is going to kill me later if we fuck up against the wall. Your back, too, for that matter.”

Erik groans, still yanking in frustration at the damned buttons on Charles’s shirt. “Don’t say that, it makes me feel old. And the bed’s too far.”

“ _What,_ ” Charles says, laughing. “It’s not _that_ far. Come on.”

Erik makes a displeased noise, nosing at his cheek.

“I’ll race you,” Charles says. When Erik raises an eyebrow at him, he grins wickedly and bolts for the bedroom.

Adrenaline searing through his veins, Erik gives chase. With the headstart, Charles makes it to the bedroom before he does and leaps onto their king-sized bed with such youthful glee that Erik can’t help but follow in suit, diving headlong into the covers with complete disregard to the thought of preserving any dignity. He pounces on Charles, who’s wriggling up the bed toward the headboard, laughing, and pins him down with a hand on each wrist.

“You have too many clothes on,” Erik growls.

Charles goes still and smirks. “I believe there’s something you’ve been wanting to do to my bowtie. You know, with your teeth.”

Lifting his chin, he bares his collar invitingly. Erik kisses his jaw, then under his chin, where Charles is sensitive. He can feel Charles’s pulse jumping in his throat, feels the way Charles’s breath grows shallower as Erik mouths at the sliver of skin above the stiff collar of his dress shirt.

“Erik,” Charles says, and it’s like his name vibrates through Charles’s throat directly into Erik’s mouth. “Erik, don’t _tease_.”

 _I’m not teasing,_ Erik replies. He pauses for a moment to inhale Charles’s scent at the curve of his jaw—he smells strongly of sweet cologne, faintly of sweat. _I’m just taking the time to enjoy some foreplay._

 _Semantics_. Charles digs his fingers into Erik’s hair and pulls lightly. _Don’t make me beg._

Erik grins, all teeth. _You’ll be begging soon enough._

He takes one end of Charles’s neatly tied bowtie between his teeth and tugs it loose. It slides from around Charles’s neck with a rasp of silk, and Erik tosses it off the side of the bed. With it gone, he can finally pull Charles’s collar open, exposing Charles’s lovely, pale neck, just _begging_ to be covered in hickeys.

 _Don’t_ , Charles warns. _It’s too warm for me to wear turtlenecks to class._

 _Then don’t cover them up_ , Erik replies. Getting his hands between them, he manages to undo the rest of the buttons of Charles’s shirt and shove it open. When he presses his mouth to the side of Charles’s neck and sucks, Charles lets out an indignant noise that turns into a low whine.

 _God, I’ve been wanting to get my hands on you all night,_ Erik tells him, skimming a hand across Charles’s chest. As he continues to kiss Charles’s neck, he brings his arm under Charles and pulls up, forcing Charles to arch his back and push his head back even further, giving Erik complete access to his throat. Erik loves kissing Charles here, loves how much _Charles_ loves it. And he’s not shy about letting Erik know either—he grips Erik’s hair tightly in his fingers, gasping, and says, _“Fuck_ ,” pleasure rolling off of him like warmth from a fire.

 _You could come like this,_ Erik muses. _Just from me sucking your neck._

 _Don’t overestimate yourself,_ Charles replies, but there’s a strained edge to even his mental voice that betrays how much he’s enjoying this.

Erik licks the mark he’s left on Charles’s neck, pleased that it’ll show up dark in the morning. Then, gradually, he moves his way down to Charles’s chest, dragging his teeth lightly over one nipple. When he closes his mouth around it and sucks, Charles pants out raggedly, “ _Christ_ ,” and tightens his hand in Erik’s hair, like he can’t decide whether he wants to pull Erik close or push him away. When he tilts his hips up, Erik can feel Charles’s stiff cock press against Erik’s thigh, hot even through the layers of their slacks.

Suddenly it’s unbearable that they still have pants on—that they still have _anything_ on. Erik pulls back, hands fumbling with his belt. Charles yanks his own belt open and arches his hips up so he can slide his slacks down over his ass, shimmying out of his pants and boxers in one swift movement. Then he pulls himself up closer to the headboard, falling back against the pillows with his knees open, inviting.

Erik’s hands pause for a moment as his gaze roves hungrily over Charles, completely naked and unselfconscious under Erik’s scrutiny. They’ve been dating for years, they’re _married_ , they’ve had sex a thousand times, and still Erik sometimes has trouble believing how beautiful Charles is. He’s fucking _gorgeous_ , and best of all, he’s _Erik’s_. All Erik’s to mark and touch and claim.

“Has anyone ever told you that the way you think during sex is really quite animalistic?” Charles asks, his voice slightly rough.

“Yes,” Erik growls, shoving his slacks and briefs off. “You. A million times.” He crawls back on top of Charles and makes a show of shoving his nose under Charles’s jaw, inhaling deeply and noisily. “Delicious.”

“That’s fucking weird,” Charles says, even as he wraps his arms around Erik’s back, tugs him closer. His hand slides down the sharp line of Erik’s spine to his ass, where he digs his fingers in hard enough to make Erik jerk slightly, cock smearing along Charles’s belly.

“What was that for?” Erik demands.

“Get on with it, darling.” Charles slaps his ass gently. “Please.”

“Bossy.”

“You knew that when you married me.”

Erik doesn’t bother to hide his pleased grin. He’s always filled with hot delight whenever Charles brings up their marriage without being prompted. Pressing a kiss to Charles’s neck, just above his collarbone, he says, “Yeah, I did.”

Charles sighs softly, the edge of his impatience fading. Stroking a hand through Erik’s hair, he slowly nudges Erik up until they’re face-to-face, then leans up for a kiss. This one is slow and lingering, all sense of urgency buried beneath a sudden desire to just _savor_ this, this moment of perfect, quiet intimacy. It’s times like these where everything else ceases to matter. The only thing Erik really cares about is here, in his arms.

“God,” Charles mutters, his cheeks flushed hot, red washing over his freckles. “You’re so sappy.”

“You knew that when you married me,” Erik croons, taking great joy in the way Charles just reddens further.

Turning his face away, Charles slaps a hand on Erik’s chest. “Please put me out of my misery. Just fuck me already.”

When Charles’s voice starts to grow thin like that, Erik knows he’s nearing the end of his tether. Urgency returns in a rush, hot and heady. Erik works a hand down between them to wrap around Charles’s cock and is rewarded with an open-mouthed moan against Erik’s neck, plus the mental equivalent of another slap on the ass and the impression of _more, more._

 _So fucking demanding,_ Erik thinks, mostly to himself. But of course Charles overhears it and rolls his eyes.

 _You just can’t handle taking orders,_ Charles tells him snippily.

 _I can handle anything you throw at me,_ Erik replies.

He cuts off any further retort by slowly jacking Charles, feeling his cock swell hard and heavy and hot against his palm. For a few moments, Charles’s presence in Erik’s mind is wordless, just a mindless swirl of pleasure and satisfaction. He arches up into Erik’s touch, mouth open as his breathing grows shallow. His eyes are almost completely closed, his arms wrapped around Erik’s back, hands digging into his shoulders. God, Erik will never get tired of seeing him like this. Already on the edge just from Erik’s firm grip around him.

“I want to try something,” Erik says, his eyes riveted on Charles’s face, taking in every ripple of pleasure there as Erik pulls his hand up to the head of Charles’s cock, pressing his thumb against the slit just enough to feel the precome leaking out.

Charles’s eyes crack open a little wider. “Okay,” he says with a touch of wariness.

“So suspicious. I’m hurt.”

“Sometimes you have really bad ideas,” Charles says dryly.

“When?” Erik demands, even as he reaches out with his powers to locate their masks, which they’d left on the table in the front hallway. “Name one.”

“Tennis rackets.”

“Just because that didn’t work out the way I’d intended doesn’t mean it was a _bad idea_.”

“Erik,” Charles says in exasperation. The pleased flush is fading from his expression, replaced by faint irritation. “This is not foreplay. This is arguing.”

“Which is foreplay,” Erik says, grinning.

“See, you may _think_ that but…” He trails off when their masquerade masks zoom in through the doorway, coming to a halt by Erik’s outstretched hand. “I swear to god, if you’re back on the massive dildo idea—”

“How do you feel about blindfolds?”

Charles stares at Erik for a moment, then at the masks, then back at Erik. His mouth opens, then closes. Then he takes a shallow breath and says, _I’m slightly annoyed with you at the moment, but I can’t deny that the idea turns me on._

“See?” Erik says smugly. “ _Foreplay_.”

Setting his own mask down on the nightstand, he brings Charles’s mask down to fit snugly over his face and takes a moment to admire how gorgeously Charles wears it, his blue eyes glittering, half his face hidden and mysterious behind the black mask. How anyone could have resisted him tonight, Erik has no idea. Erik certainly can’t.

“You’ll let me know if it’s too much,” Erik says.

Charles shuts his eyes. _You know I will_.

Erik touches the side of the mask, and it subtly reshapes itself, metal flowing from the feather-like patterns to fill in the holes over Charles’s eyes, sealing them shut. He can tell the moment Charles opens his eyes again—his breath hitches for a second, his body still beneath Erik’s. Then he exhales slowly and smiles. _Kinky_.

He hisses in surprise when Erik bends down and bites his earlobe, then kisses the sensitive spot underneath his ear. _Are you going to tease me all night?_ Charles demands. He raises his hand and gropes at Erik’s shoulder for a moment before following the line of Erik’s neck up to his hair. Digging his fingers in, he tugs Erik’s head down lower, to where he really wants to be kissed. _I’d like to get some sleep at some point, you know._

“Fine,” Erik huffs.

Nudging the nightstand drawer open with his powers, he retrieves the tin of lube inside. As soon as Charles hears the cap open, he stills, waiting, anticipating a touch. Grabbing a pillow, Erik shifts down between Charles’s legs, pushes the pillow under Charles’s ass to raise it slightly, and then just stops for a long moment to take in the sight: Charles spread out on the bed, masked and blind, his cock hard and leaking slightly at the tip, his hands fisted tensely in the sheets.

When Erik finally touches two slick fingers to his hole, Charles jerks, a soft whine escaping through his clenched teeth. Erik decides very quickly that he _loves_ this blindfold idea—even with his telepathy, Charles doesn’t seem to be able to track Erik’s movements well, or maybe he’s limiting what he overhears in Erik’s mind, in the spirit of the blindfold. Either way, it’s incredibly heady, being able to surprise a man who’s very seldom ever caught off-guard.

As Erik pushes one finger in, he watches Charles’s face, mesmerized by the way his whole expression opens up just as his body does. They’ve done this enough times that Charles relaxes easily around Erik’s finger, allowing Erik to slip a second one in without too much resistance. As Erik fingers him open, Charles feeds some of the sensation back to Erik, showing him how good Erik’s touch feels, how he wishes Erik’s fingers were longer so they could go deeper.

 _But that’s what your cock is for,_ Charles adds, a bit breathlessly.

Erik grins sharply. Charles’s pleasure wraps around him like a thick blanket, the touch of his telepathy on Erik’s mind almost overwhelmingly hot. Erik’s cock hangs hard and heavy between his legs, and it takes an effort not to reach down to stroke it once or twice, to give himself some relief. He wants to last.

 _That’d be nice,_ Charles agrees. _You’ve kept me waiting for long enough, after all._

“Too much talking from you,” Erik growls. Pulling his fingers out, he drizzles some more lube over them and pushes back in, with three fingers this time. Charles grits his teeth for a second, then relaxes again, letting out a trembling breath.

“Okay?” Erik asks, studying the uncovered half of his face.

Charles nods. “Just hard to predict…” He pants softly when Erik twists his fingers, searching for Charles’s prostate. _The mask,_ he explains. _A bit disorienting. But leave it. It’s...interesting._

When Erik grazes his prostate, Charles pushes back against his fingers with a moan, biting down on his bottom lip. The sound makes Erik’s cock throb, desperate to be buried in the tight heat clenching eagerly around Erik’s fingers. He stretches Charles for another moment, then withdraws his fingers, fumbling for the lube again. He’s barely glanced at the nightstand, wondering if they have any condoms left, when Charles says, _No, just_ — _I want to feel you, all of you._

“ _God_.” Erik hurries to slick up his cock, then tosses the lube away and tugs Charles down until his thighs lay open against Erik’s. Gripping his shaft in his hand, he nudges the head of his cock against Charles’s hole, pushing gently—gently—

“ _Erik_ ,” Charles hisses.

Erik leans forward. They both let out soft groans when his cock finally presses through the resistance and slides in, inch by inch.

God, there’s _nothing_ like watching Charles’s hole stretch to accommodate him. They’ve had sex a million times, and still the sight of it makes pleasure roll up Erik’s spine because _god,_ it’s fucking _hot_. He starts to pause, fighting off his orgasm, but Charles wraps his legs around Erik’s ass and pulls him close, pulls him _in._

“ _Fuck_ ,” Erik gasps, catching himself on his hands, planted on either side of Charles’s arms. “Wait, wait.”

 _You won’t come,_ Charles says, with a certainty that implies he won’t _let_ Erik come.

 _Evil,_ Erik replies, trembling over Charles, his hips flush against Charles’s ass. _Pure evil._

Charles digs his heels into Erik’s ass, like a horseman digging in his spurs. _Come on, darling. Don’t keep me waiting_.

Sometimes Erik wonders what his underlings would think if they knew how domineering Charles is in bed. Then again, he thinks ruefully, Charles isn’t any less domineering _out_ of bed. He supposes he should at least be disgruntled at the fact that his minions know his authority isn’t absolute but...well. Charles has all of them wrapped around his little finger, too.

Erik rolls his hips, and Charles grits out through his teeth, _“Yes_.” There’s an edge of exasperation to his tone—an impatient _finally_ —and Erik rolls his hips again, harder, to shut him up. It works, as it always does.

Normally Erik likes to fuck with a rhythm, his thrusts even and long, but tonight he fucks into Charles without any pattern, delighting in the way Charles tries to follow his movements blindly and largely fails. Erik gives him small, rabbit-like thrusts for a few seconds, then stops. He pulls halfway out, watches Charles’s face as he pushes back in. For a moment, he just stays there, buried all the way inside Charles, feeling Charles’s hole clench around him as Charles’s chest heaves shallowly with each breath.

Then he pulls all the way out, making Charles growl in protest. “ _Erik_ —”

Charles goes perfectly still when Erik presses the head of his cock to his slick hole. His whole body tenses with anticipation, his hands fisted into the sheets, his teeth digging into his lower lip to trap any noises, the muscles of his thighs trembling with the effort to keep still. Sweat beads along the edges of the mask, the mask that Erik _made_ , the mask that’s as good as Erik’s claim on him. _God_ , he’s beautiful.

With no warning, Erik slams all the way in. A hoarse _scream_ tears out of Charles’s throat, his hands clutching the sheets like they’re his lifeline, his body constricting so tightly around Erik’s cock that Erik’s eyes roll back in his head.

For a second—maybe a minute—everything goes white. Pleasure lances up Erik’s spine like a lightning bolt going north, searing through his nerves. He loses all awareness of where he is, what he’s doing—even, for a moment, _who_ he is.

When he comes back to himself, he’s collapsed on Charles’s chest, breathing like an overexerted stallion. His limbs feel distant, out of his control. Once his vision returns, he manages to push himself up and realizes—oh god, he didn’t _come_. How is that even _possible?_

 _Fuck_ , Charles says finally, his chest heaving under Erik’s. _That was…_

Suddenly Erik realizes that not all of the stickiness on his belly is sweat. _Did you come?_ he says, incredulous. Then he thinks, how could Charles _not_ have come? That—whatever the hell that had been—was _incredible_.

 _I...didn’t mean to_ , Charles admits, which says a whole fucking lot. Charles is usually capable of holding back his orgasm, and Erik’s, for as long as he pleases. And yet he’d lost control…

Charles swallows hard. “The blindfold,” he says hoarsely, touching the edge of the mask. “I didn’t expect it to make everything else so...intense.”

“I didn’t expect it to be _that_ intense,” Erik says. He bows his head and presses his forehead against Charles’s shoulder for a moment. “God.”

“Yeah.”

For a couple of minutes, they lie there in silence, just listening to each other breathe. Erik closes his eyes and feels Charles’s pulse gradually slow, his heartbeat growing less frantic. But arousal still simmers at the base of Erik’s spine, and his cock is still mostly hard, buried in Charles’s ass. When he rolls his hips experimentally, trying to gauge how willing Charles is to keep going, Charles nods and whispers, _Go on._

Erik doesn’t need to be told twice. Pushing himself back up onto his arms, he pulls out halfway, then pushes back in, groaning when Charles tightens around him. Within seconds, he’s fully hard again, and this time he doesn’t try to surprise Charles, he just fucks into him slow and long and steady. He can’t tear his eyes away from Charles’s face—even though his expression is half-covered, Charles’s mouth is expressive enough to compensate for it. With every thrust, he gasps open-mouthed, soft hitches of breath that are barely audible over the _slap-slap-slap_ of their bodies, quiet inhalations that make Erik’s blood race hotly through his veins. Charles’s legs wrap around Erik’s waist, urging him on, and after a minute, he reaches out. Erik captures his hands and pins them down into the sheets, lacing their fingers together.

Pleasure begins to seep up Erik’s spine, building. _Can I…?_ Charles asks, breathlessly. After a moment, Erik nods and braces himself, eyes slipping shut.

Erik has fucked women. He’s fucked men. He’s fucked mutants. But before Charles, he had never fucked a telepath, and _god_ , was he missing out. The way Charles links their minds together just before orgasm hits, the way he shows Erik exactly what he’s feeling—there’s absolutely nothing in the world like it.

There’s always a bit of vertigo when Charles lends Erik his perspective, but tonight it’s more dizzying than usual. Erik can’t see, he’s blinded—no, blindfolded—and for a second, it’s all he can do not to lash out in his panic. But Charles redirects his attention away from the disorientation and toward what feels good, and Erik moans, their dual pleasure twining together, amplifying.

Feeling his own cock plowing into him will never feel anything less than bizarre, just as knowing exactly how _good_ this is for Charles will never be anything less than incredible. In those few seconds, he doesn’t have to guess what will make Charles arch up off the bed with a bitten-off cry of ecstasy, he _knows_ it. He angles up to hit that prized spot, and Charles’s pleasure explodes behind his closed eyelids. Distantly, he can feel Charles’s fingers spasm around his own.

 _Can you feel?_ Charles asks. It’s less of a question than the impression of a question, linked with the mask. _How good it is?_

And Erik can. He completely understands why Charles had come so unexpectedly earlier because with the blindness, the rest of his senses are heightened. His whole body feels overwhelmingly sensitive, the drag of Erik’s cock inside him sending exquisite thrills of pleasure up his spine. Erik can feel it in _his_ spine.

Losing control of his slow rhythm, Erik tries to say, “ _I’m not going to last,”_ but his tongue is thick and clumsy in his mouth, and besides, Charles knows anyway. So when Erik’s hips begin to stutter, his balls tightening, Charles clenches _hard_ around him just as he pushes in, and Erik’s fucking _gone_.

His vision whites out for the second time that night. Squeezing his eyes shut, Erik shudders through his orgasm, collapsing down onto his elbows and gathering Charles close as he rolls his hips, cock twitching as it spills deep into Charles’s ass. Charles wraps his arms around Erik’s shoulders and clutches at him, breathing harshly into his ear. Erik can just barely hear him over his own thundering pulse.

They drift in and out of shared consciousness for a good five or ten minutes. By the time Charles finally separates their minds completely and nudges Erik off of him (both of them wincing as Erik’s soft cock slips from Charles’s ass), sweat and come have begun to cool on their skin, sticky and uncomfortable. But instead of getting up, Erik just flops onto his back beside Charles and stares at the ceiling, still feeling like he needs a minute to catch his breath.

“Could you…” Charles asks finally, waving a vague hand at his face.

“Oh. Right.”

It takes more concentration than it usually does to use his powers. Erik reaches over to touch the mask, and it comes away in his hand, revealing the rest of Charles’s face, his sweat-damp hairline. Charles blinks blearily at Erik for a long few moments, his eyes hazy and blurred. When they finally focus on Erik’s face, Charles grins lazily and says, “That was amazing.”

Erik smirks, floating the mask over to the nightstand. “My ideas are usually amazing.”

“Occasionally. _Occasionally_ amazing.”

“This one was _better_ than amazing,” Erik says. “Don’t try to deny it—I felt it.” He taps his forehead.

“Speaking of…” Charles stirs lazily, shifting closer so he can pillow his head on Erik’s arm. “Is it weird? Being able to feel yourself...well, fucking yourself, I mean.”

“Yes.” Erik still can’t wrap his mind around how impossible and ridiculous that is. “But it always does confirm one thing.”

“What’s that?”

Erik grins sharply. “I really do have an _incredible_ cock. I think it actually might be the best cock in the Western Hemisphere. Definitely in the U.S. at least.”

Groaning loudly, Charles rolls away. “Your _ego_ is what’s incredible.”

Erik preens. “Thank you.”

Rolling his eyes, Charles gets up. Deep, primal satisfaction jolts through Erik to see Charles limp slightly as he heads for the bathroom. _Job well done,_ he thinks smugly to himself, sinking languidly into the pillows.

A moment later, the shower starts. _Are you coming in?_ Charles asks. _Or are you just going to stew in come and sweat and lube until morning?_

As tempting as it is to just close his eyes and fall asleep, Erik knows he’ll feel like shit later if he doesn’t clean himself off. Reluctantly, he slides out of bed, tugs their ruined sheets off the mattress to be thrown in the laundry later, and goes to join Charles in the shower.

“Tonight was nice,” Charles says sleepily as Erik scrubs shampoo into his hair.

Tonight Erik got to see Charles dressed to the nines in a gorgeous tux that Charles so rarely takes out of the closet, and a mask that Erik crafted carefully for him. He got to flex his powers and impress both Charles and the man he hopes to become business partners with in the near future. He’s one step closer to closing a business deal that’s been hanging in limbo for the last few weeks. And best of all, he and Charles came home and had some of the most mind-blowing sex Erik’s ever experienced.

Tonight honestly couldn’t have gone better.

“See?” Erik says, scratching his fingers along Charles’s scalp. “Being married to me isn’t the worst thing in the world.”

“No, it isn’t.” Turning, Charles reaches up, wraps his arms around Erik’s neck, and kisses him, long and slow and warm. Erik closes his eyes and leans into it.

 _In fact,_ Charles says, his mental voice rough and hot with affection, _it’s one of the better things._

 

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Cover art for "A Night on the Town"](https://archiveofourown.org/works/8151797) by [avictoriangirl](https://archiveofourown.org/users/avictoriangirl/pseuds/avictoriangirl)




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